


To Walk Alone in the Hall of Death

by bluemermaid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/F, Minor Character Death, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemermaid/pseuds/bluemermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She seeks to find the truth, the secret, the knowledge of how someone else has come to claim Narcissa's youth and beauty and strength.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Walk Alone in the Hall of Death

She is alone.

The world is bathed in shades of grey, and heaviness sits upon her like a curse, a burden that has been thrust upon her shoulders, a weight that she must carry. She is so tired and weak; she has tried so hard and still lost everything. Her back is bent, and she can barely walk, every step a sorrow. She is alone.

They tried to slip into the shadows, tried to avoid the final explosion of war and death, but still it came. It came and it claimed him, her husband, her only love. A flash of brilliant light and a strangled cry of pain is her very last memory of him, the memory she will carry to her own grave, which surely looms ahead, as she cannot bear to go on without him.

Lucius Malfoy is dead, and Narcissa is alone.

Her son has forsaken her, walked out into the light with all those lost and lonely people crying out to be saved. Narcissa prefers the dark, where she can hide with her grief, and not be subjected to the harsh stares and judgements of those in the light. Those who died in black cloaks have been cast into the fire, with no opportunity to clear their names. You live by the Dark Mark and you die by it.

Narcissa will not live in a world that condemns her husband; she turns away from the son who tries to.

And so she dwells alone in the manor, wandering those dark and empty halls with her eyes blank and her hair hanging over her face. Her feet drag on the steps, and she can barely stomach what little food the elves force upon her. She is alone, and will remain that way. She will not leave her home.

**

The sun is far too bright.

Narcissa shades her eyes as she ventures cautiously down the street, keeping her head down so as not to meet the gazes of any passersby. If they look upon her, they will only feel pity or resentment, small feelings by those unworthy of Narcissa's time. Small people, and all of them fools.

She would not be outdoors at all, would not dare enter into the light, if not for the fact that she has nothing to eat, and her body is slowly dying. She wishes morosely that she could let go, let her body wither up and fade away, decompose into the ground beside her Lucius. But, alas, some sort of self-preservation lives on, though quietly in the back of Narcissa's mind. She is hungry, and somehow, she will eat.

In the marketplace vendors sell their wares, offering fruits and meats. Narcissa places things into her basket with a trembling hand, wondering how the ground can still produce such nutritious goods when everything feels like death around her. How can the sun still shine, how can the people still smile and laugh and run about? She could cry just watching them, all those happy families moving on in these new days of constant light, the light that does not touch Narcissa's clouded feet.

A flash of blonde hair disappears around a corner, and Narcissa feels a jolt to her heart. Has her heart been beating all this time? She's barely felt it until this moment, standing in the middle of the bustling market as though nobody else were there, nobody but the mysterious owner of a head of shimmering, shiny blonde hair. 

It calls to her, and Narcissa follows, drawn on blindly and not even knowing why, unable to articulate the yearning she feels for the discovery. Around corners and down narrow alleys she stumbles, hoping to catch another glimpse of those beautiful tumbling locks. In and out of shadows, lost and wandering, unable to see or hear what is happening around her. Narcissa has been lost in a fog since the moment her husband's body hit the stone floor; it is only now that she searches for the way out.

Emerging into a column of blinding sunlight, Narcissa blinks her eyes and places a hand on her forehead. She is tired, and confused. Why has she wandered so far from home? She looks down at the basket of goods on her arm, surprised to find it there. Has she paid for her food? She cannot remember, but it does not seem important.

The sun glints sharply off blonde hair, making it sparkle in the light, and Narcissa's eyes snap to the sight, her heart once again leaping in her chest. There is a young woman standing outside of a shop, with rays of light dancing in the rippling waves of her glorious hair.

Narcissa feels cold, even standing in the warmth of the sun. She inches forward, slowly, uncertain of what she is doing. What can this girl offer her, that her lost husband could not? Lucius still exists somewhere, he must, and so why is Narcissa so suddenly drawn to another? The hair is not even like that of her beloved. Lucius Malfoy had hair that was nearly white; this girl's is much darker. It is closer to Narcissa's own hair, if anything. That comparison makes Narcissa feel ever more nervous, if it were possible, though she is still oblivious as to why that should be so.

The girl seems to sense Narcissa closing in on her, the cold shadow looming over her shoulder; she turns, and her eyes widen, and Narcissa sees herself, she sees the very same young woman that she used to be, when she was flushed and beautiful and so full of hope that her heart could have burst from happiness alone. It is like looking into a mirror.

Narcissa reels back, puts her hands to her heart, clutching at the frantic pulse of life that lingers there, stuttering and damaged, beating on though all the world tries to put out that last remaining light. Who is this girl?

"Mrs. Malfoy!" The girl looks alarmed, and touches Narcissa's arm, tentatively, as though she feels she will be chastised for it. "Are you all right? What brings you to this part of town?"

"You know me." Narcissa has never allowed herself to appear weak in the public eye, and somehow for this girl she will uphold that tradition. Though she cared not who would see her grief, wandering through a market with her head bowed and her steps slow and shuffling towards death, for this girl she will cast her eyes up once again. She can't even begin to explain why. "How do you know me, child?" She means to sound demeaning, haughty as a Black and a Malfoy should be. Beneath that poised exterior, however, she is trembling.

The girl shrinks back, with none of the expected grace of a young Narcissa Black. Though she tries; Narcissa sees something glimmer in her gaze as she looks upward, something of need, something of a woman trying desperately to gain ground, to make a name for herself. Or perhaps Narcissa is still only seeing the ghost of herself. It does not matter. "I'm Daphne Greengrass, Mrs. Malfoy. I went to school with Draco; we've met once or twice before."

Narcissa remembers. She remembers sweeping past the Greengrass girls to meet her son at the train station, eager to escape the stink of Muggle in the air. She remembers two beautiful young girls, with matching ribbons in their hair and smiles of sweet innocence on their faces. She remembers not caring one way or the other what became of them; she remembers not caring. This is not the same girl that stands before her now. The girl before her now has seen darkness; has seen war. Daphne Greengrass has grown up, and she has become Narcissa. What was once innocent has now been stained with the shadows of sin, the necessity of perfection in a world that turns against you for the smallest slight.

"I see," Narcissa says. She looks at Daphne's slender wrists, hidden in gloves of white satin, and Narcissa longs to touch them. She longs to run a finger up Daphne's delicate neck and take that rounded chin in her hand, pull the girl's face closer and inspect her, tear her apart with her gaze. She seeks to find the truth, the secret, the knowledge of how someone else has come to claim Narcissa's youth and beauty and strength. "Are you with someone?" Narcissa asks, with one delicately raised eyebrow. Her heart, which she has not felt in days, is now loud as thunder within her breast.

Daphne Greengrass hesitates. She glances away, seeking salvation, perhaps. She finds none. "No," she says, drawing out the word. She is frightened. "I am alone for the evening."

Narcissa smiles the smile of the victor, of the one who has captured that golden egg. "Perhaps you wish to join me for a cup of tea," she says, "or a small dinner. I shall not keep you long. But you look as though you could use a diversion. We can catch up on things."

One does not deny the charm of Narcissa Malfoy. Though she feels dead and empty on the inside, some spark does still reside in that heart, and it will do anything to get what it wants. It wants Daphne, for reasons inexplicable, but reasons that will not be denied. Two sets of pale blue eyes glimmer, and two pale women walk side by side down dark alleys, with two heads of shimmering blonde hair swaying in what small bits of flickering light pierce the shadows.

**

It is as dim within the Manor as ever, and Daphne looks ever more like Narcissa in the gloom, in the orange light of the candles in the dining hall. Narcissa leans over her tea and peers across the table, searching that pale face that is so other and yet so the same. Daphne sips her own tea and tries to look calm and brave and happy. Narcissa can see the fear that lies beneath it.

Though she did not ever wish to appear too clever, for better to avoid the darker side of the war, and the attentions of the wrong sorts of people, Narcissa is no fool. She can see clearly the motivations of others, and she can see what people think of her. They think her mad, mad with grief over the loss of her husband, mad with fury over how the world has changed. And some of it is true, Narcissa will concede; perhaps she is mad with grief. She must be, for why else has she poached a young woman, a girl who is a stranger to Narcissa, and yet seems to hold the key to everything she has lost? 

But they think her mad in a way that Narcissa will never admit to. They think she has lost her very soul, that she haunts the corridors of her home as a ghost, as a speechless specter with no thoughts left in her brain but the pain. There is some truth to this, at least in the first days following her loss, but Narcissa will not confess to such weakness. She must have something, small if it must be. She will remember her Lucius because she loved him more than anything could possibly be loved in this world; but she will not lose herself completely. Not even if young Daphne tempts her to.

And young Daphne sits with hidden fears in her heart because she has heard these tales of Mad Narcissa Malfoy lost in the hall of death. She will not show such fear, because to show respect to ones betters is a trait drilled into every good little Pureblood girl from the day she is born until the day she leaves this world. Daphne will pretend to be happy, and Narcissa will know it.

"Another cup, my dear?" Narcissa asks, gesturing towards Daphne's empty teacup. There is the faintest of lip stains on the rim, kissed pink. Narcissa feels the urge to taste it. She has a flash of herself, sitting before a mirror, experimenting with a myriad of color stains as she ponders how to best present herself to her suitors. She smirks across the table. Will Daphne's lips taste as Narcissa's did, pouted in a glittering mirror, pressed against cool glass? 

"Yes, please," Daphne replies primly; her hand only shakes slightly as Narcissa pours the tea. "You have a lovely home, Mrs. Malfoy. It is a shame to let it sit so in darkness."

This is far bolder than Narcissa expected Daphne to be; she is impressed. "The sun pains me of late," she says, being bold herself. "My eyes settle better in darkness. My heart rests in it."

Daphne nods solemnly. "I am very sorry for your loss, my lady," she says quietly. "It was an unfair blow in a battle nearly ended. I have heard that your husband was attempting to escape when he fell."

"Yes," Narcissa replies. "But I do not wish to speak of my husband tonight. His weight is too heavy at times. I far prefer to speak of you. You are a beautiful young woman, Miss Greengrass."

"You may call me Daphne." Her cheeks are rosy pink, though her neck is pale as death. She makes a show of adding milk to her tea, stirring it into that dark liquid ever so slowly. She swallows before meeting Narcissa's gaze. "Why did you invite me here this evening, Mrs. Malfoy?"

There is a promise in the question; there is an invitation. Narcissa feels a rush of heady pleasure, such as she has not felt in years. In the war there was only fear and desperation; her love in those times was strained and dangerous, wrought with the impending doom that would befall her. In times of happiness she lusted after Lucius Malfoy with a fierce red passion that threatened to tear the heart from her chest; she feels that again now, looking across the table at her younger self.

Narcissa rises from the table and walks gracefully around the tall-backed chairs, her cloak trailing behind her on the polished marble flooring. She walks until she is behind Daphne, placing her hands upon those slender shoulders. "Do you fear me?" she asks, in near whispers, her lips hovering just above the girl's tender ears.

"No," Daphne replies, though she shivers, and Narcissa chuckles at the tremor in her voice. 

"What do you fear about me?" Narcissa asks, though as she knows herself, she knows what the answer will be.

"Your power," Daphne whispers, as Narcissa snakes her arms around that pale neck, as she places cold kisses on those rosy cheeks. "I fear that you will consume me."

"Good girl," Narcissa whispers, tracing lines across the girl's neck with her pointed nails. "You fear me rightly, then. For I do plan to consume you, my dear. And you'll enjoy every moment."

**

Narcissa has had her dalliances with women before. She has watched her sisters undressing and felt a heat between her thighs; she has cornered her fellow Prefects in the halls of Hogwarts and kissed the blossoming bodies of womanhood behind curtains and in deserted classrooms. For months after she left school, in those dwindling days of freedom, she has followed the swaying hips of a young fiery redhead and sent her searing looks of want, looks that went ignored and drove Narcissa mad with a longing that was never fulfilled. But then Lucius Malfoy came into her life, and Narcissa learned what true love was.

Here, now, with young Daphne Greengrass whimpering into Narcissa's sheets, Narcissa feels something quite other than before. The girl is so like Narcissa herself, so young and pale and beautiful, a swan in the deep dark waters of the earth. If she touches her hard enough, if she kisses those pink lips with enough thirst, can Narcissa drink from this fountain of memory? Can she drain what little innocence the girl has left; can she drink those bits of happiness and keep them for herself, bring her drowning soul back from the depths and regain what desperate need for sanity she has left? 

If she licks those dewy lips and tastes the sweet nectar there, can she forget the feel of her husband's arms around her? If she twists her fingers deep enough into that slippery heat, can she forget the joining of their bodies, male and female intertwined in the passionate bliss of conception? Can she banish the ghost that lingers in her heart, his voice a constant moaning in her soul? 

Narcissa treasures the sound of the girl's orgasm, that sweet, sweet keening of pleasure and pain, and she takes it into her heart. If the girl screams loud enough, will Lucius be stirred from his eternal rest, striding back into his Manor to take back the woman that he will forever own? Or will he be driven away from this earth forever, determined to let his beloved wife move on without him? Narcissa can not decide on the more pleasurable outcome. She lets out her frustration with an assault upon the girl, teeth and fingers driving ever deeper, ever harder, as the girl twists and screams and tears the sheets from the bed.

There is no release for Narcissa; she brings the girl to completion again and again, and each time Narcissa is left empty and yearning for more. She will never be complete.

**

Daphne lies spent and broken, her limbs spread across the satin spread of the Malfoy master bed, covered in scratches and bites, with the blooming beginnings of bruises on her arms and throat. She sleeps with her mouth slightly open, with her eyes fluttering in dreams that Narcissa can not decipher, though she longs to.

Sitting on the edge with her hands in her lap, Narcissa watches the girl, wondering what has become of herself. She turns to her mirror, with its gilded corners, a wedding gift from Lucius Malfoy's parents, who were delighted to have made such a fortuitous match in families. In the distance, in the darkness, Narcissa sees an old woman in the reflection, sitting on the edge with her hands in her lap.

This has brought her nothing. This has not eased her constant ache, the empty hole inside of herself that misses her husband, her family. This has not brightened the darkness of the manor, of the bedroom where Narcissa sleeps alone, even when there is a girl beside her. She has not been saved; she has not gone back in time to possess the body of her younger self. She is still Mad Narcissa Malfoy, lost in the hall of death. The girl only mocks her, reminds her of what she has lost and can never have again.

"Wake," Narcissa says, prodding that tender body, the lithe and delicate form of the young girl. Daphne stirs, sitting up with her eyes wide. She wraps her arms around herself. "You must go," Narcissa tells her, her voice cold and emotionless. "You must leave this place, and never return."

"Mrs. Malfoy?" Daphne looks so small and fragile, trembling with cold, goosebumps rippling up her arms as she shivers. There is so much confusion and beauty in her eyes, and Narcissa nearly weakens, nearly reaches out for that beauty again. But it brings her nothing.

"I believe I am making myself clear, Miss Greengrass," Narcissa says, pulling at the sheets that still partially cover that bruised and broken body. "I am done with you now, and you must go."

Daphne looks away, to hide her tears. "Yes, ma'am," she says, and rolls off the side of that grand and defiled bed.

Narcissa watches the girl dress, clumsily pulling her robes about her shoulders as she gathers her gorgeous blonde locks behind her. There is still so much Narcissa in the movements, in the way she keeps her head up high even through her tears. It will always be there, never to be taken back by the woman that left it behind so long ago. Narcissa watches her and the desire turns to rage, it turns to a furious envy that nearly makes her scream. Lucius is gone, and yet Narcissa remains, growing farther and farther away from her happiness.

"I never want to lay eyes on you again," she says to the girl, leading her firmly through those dark halls, and pushing her out into the light. "You have brought me nothing."

The door slams hard behind her, and Narcissa is alone in the gloom, as she has been all along, as she will always be.

**

The days pass without measure; Narcissa does not pay attention to time. There is no time but the beating of her heart, dull and crawling, marking each moment without love. Malfoy Manor remains dark, and Narcissa remains alone, wasting away and refusing to walk into the light. She has tried that before, and it brought her nothing but a fresh wave of misery, a fresh onslaught of grief, the loss of herself as well as all that brought her joy.

Lucius watches her from his painting in the study, but he does not speak. Even here Narcissa is alone, though she begs him to come back to her, palms against the canvas as she pleads him to say something, to tell her that he loves her still. But there is nothing.

Some time later, though Narcissa cannot say how long, the doors to the manor swing open, and her son steps into the gloom. Draco looks well; he is more full of color than his mother has ever seen in him, and he is dressed in fine robes. He insists that Narcissa dress herself and comb her hanging hair back, limp and dull in the gloom, no longer the head of shimmering blonde locks that it once was.

They sit in the study, under the silent eyes of Lucius, as Draco tells his mother that he is engaged to be married. Narcissa finds that she cannot care. There is love there for her son, dim and quiet in the back of her heart, but it is drowning in the madness of her soul. She reaches out for the boy she once knew, but he is no longer there. Draco has grown up and grown away from her, grown away from his youth, just as Narcissa has done.

"Very well," she says bitterly. "I shall help with the wedding arrangements as best I can, under my current circumstances."

Draco purses his lips and looks worried, though only briefly, and it stabs Narcissa's heart. "This should be good for you, Mother. Father would want that, I hope."

They look as one upon the painting, upon the ghost that shall never truly leave them, try as they might to escape it.

**

"Mother," Draco says, loud and proud and eager. "This is my betrothed, Astoria Greengrass."

Narcissa feels the cold fingers of fate wrap their tendrils around her heart. The girl has long, dark hair and laughing eyes. She reminds Narcissa of her own sister, Andromeda with the bold spirit and kind heart. Andromeda, another ghost in the wind, another soul long lost across the chasm of time. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Malfoy," Astoria says sweetly.

"Likewise," Narcissa chokes out, battling her tumbling emotions, so much fear and rage and envy coursing through her that it seems her very blood will boil right through her veins, come pouring out of her eyes and ears and nose in gushing waves of burning steam.

"This is my sister, Daphne," Astoria continues, oblivious, happy in her own little world of light. She is engaged to be married to a rich and handsome wizard, and she is blind to the misery of those around her, even that of her own sibling. "She's going to be my partner in all the preparations, for our big day. Perhaps the two of you could conspire together, to give a blended touch? To match the blending of our families."

Narcissa cannot look Daphne Greengrass in the eye. The girl is smaller than she appeared before, gaunt from malnutrition. There is still youth there, but it is shriveling, gone dark with depression. There are no remnants of the bruises Narcissa left her, but not all marks can be seen with the eye. Narcissa knows this all too well.

She nearly slaps Daphne across the face. How dare the young girl show her face here, after what has transpired between them? Narcissa tried so hard to banish this youth from her halls, from her world, to remove the laughing mockery of what she can never again have in this lifetime. And now, here it stands, still with its bravery, still with its gleaming blonde locks and the alluring mix of fear and desire in its gaze. 

No, she cannot bear it. Narcissa will not have this girl in her life, in her family. What a farce! What a hell, to have the younger Narcissa thrust before her, unable to be captured. Narcissa is furious. 

"Mother," Draco says, startling her with a hand on her arm. She looks at him with eyes wide, for at first she does not recognize him. He has grown so much. "This is a happy time, remember? Please." He raises his voice. "The girls and I will be staying here for a while, to brighten up the place. I'd like to be married in the garden, Mother. This Manor needs some life in its halls."

And there it is again, the hall of death, come to mock Narcissa yet again. Life. How can she live, with the girl roaming her hallways? Narcissa's own face lurking in the shadows, beautiful and broken, the picture of innocence stained, just as Narcissa has been stained by death. She cannot bear it.

But there is nothing to be done. How could she explain this to her son, who seems to have thrived in a world after his father's death? Narcissa can almost feel Lucius's arms around her, soothing her, bringing comfort. If only he could be beside her still, to tell her that she is still beautiful, that she does not need to be haunted by the image of her former self. But she is alone. 

Lucius Malfoy is dead, and Narcissa Malfoy feels dead. She must pretend to care for the Greengrass girls, with their matching hair ribbons and their youth waved like a banner before them, twin heads of shimmering hair flowing behind them as they walk. Daphne looks back at Narcissa, and her face is pleading. Narcissa finds that she does not care; there is nothing there for her. She will only be further tormented if she tries to take the girl again. She cannot bring back what is lost.

She is alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment here, or comment on Livejournal.


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